


Keep a Little Fire Burning

by TheTiniestTortoise



Series: Tales from the Dusty Trail (Tumblr Prompt Fills & Requests) [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, brief mentions of death, mild angst and comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestTortoise/pseuds/TheTiniestTortoise
Summary: After the events at Beaver Hollow, you and John have found a decent place to stop and catch your breath. A little slice of angst and comfort.
Relationships: John Marston/Reader
Series: Tales from the Dusty Trail (Tumblr Prompt Fills & Requests) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557991
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Keep a Little Fire Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on Tumblr requested some Christmas fluff with John. My brain yeeted this out into the void. 
> 
> This takes place in an au where Abigail is never in the gang, reader essentially taking her place.

It’s Christmas Eve. Your first one away from the gang. It feels like you’ve been running for ages, after everything that’s happened, even if it’s only been a few months. Arthur is dead. Dutch, Bill, Micah and Javier run off, disappeared to who knows where; the rest of the gang dead or scattered as well, just like you and John.

But he came back to Copperhead Landing for you that night, and you’ve been on the move ever since. Northwest; constantly northwest. Back up through the Grizzlies, into the oncoming winter to hopefully cross the border into Canada.

The two of you found a hunter’s cabin not too long ago, abandoned and a little dusty. It is a sturdy structure, though; one that will protect you from the storm that has begun in earnest outside its walls.

It is a stark reminder of Colter; everyone cold, everyone scared, everyone on the brink of giving up after the blood and confusion in Blackwater. But you aren’t cold now; you’ve stoked up a hot blaze in the fireplace while you wait for John to finish chopping more firewood outside. Thank God you’d found an old axe leaned up beside the doorway; seems whoever had once owned this place had been about to start making their own preparations for winter.

You’ve set a coffee percolator on the hearth just in front of the fire, figuring you can offer him something hot when he’s done for all the work he’s putting in. Dinner is going to be heartier than it’s been in a month. The cabin has a root cellar, well-stocked with preserved fruit and vegetables and even some cheese. The cupboards are full of dry goods, and you’ve even got some venison you salted a few days back.

John makes his way inside for the umpteenth time, insisting on dragging the firewood inside by the armload to keep it dry while the snow flies. You hear him grunt as he sets the logs down by the doorway, breathing heavy from the exertion.

You glance at him over your shoulder, attempting to keep an eye on the coffee and food you’re heating up at the same time. He looks weary and drawn, has for a while now. Hasn’t said much since that night you had to run. _Run and don’t look back._ That’s what Arthur had said to him. But, for a while now, it’s felt like that’s all you _can_ do; remember the days not so long ago when things were still alright.

You hear him puff out a big breath and shake himself off; then the door closes and you hear first one boot tumble to the floor, and then the other.

“Smells good.”

“Mm,” you mumble as you wrap your hand in a towel so you can pick up the can of corn that sits on the hearth and give it a little shake.

“Why didn’t you light the cook stove, baby,” he asks as he goes over to the small kitchen to search for plates and forks.

You shrug half-heartedly, reaching out again with bare fingers this time to flip the two cuts of venison you’ve got set on a small camping grill. “No need to waste the firewood.”

He eyes you when he comes over, bending down to set the plates on the rug before he levers himself to the ground. He clears his throat, shifts the forks in his hand; he knows you’re out of sorts, but he’s never been all that good with his words. He reaches over and touches your arm gently. “Hey…”

Your front cracks just a bit. You chew the inside of your cheek for a few moments before your eyes slide back to him. “What are we doin’, John? W-What are we gonna _do…?”_

His mouth tightens into a thin line; he goes still as anything for a few moments, processing the weight of your question. “Hey, now,” he mutters, scooting closer, dropping the forks onto the top plate with a harsh clatter. “It don’t matter what we do. We’re gonna figure it out. We got each other, right?”

His scars are stark in the light of the fire, defining the right side of his face imperfectly, even through the beard he’s now sporting. He thinks they’re ugly, but you see them differently; every time you look at those scars, they remind you that the man who bears them, the man you love, is still alive.

You know what he says is true, in a crude sort of way, wildly oversimplified. “‘Course we do,” you mumble a little quickly, busying yourself by grabbing up the dishes from the floor and leaning forward to remove the food and the coffee pot from the hearth. You use a fork to spear the venison and slap it down on one of the plates.

John immediately reaches out and takes the plate from you, setting it off to the side absently before returning his attention. He leans in close and angles his head, looking up to try and catch your gaze from where you’ve cast it downwards. “I mean it.”

He reaches over, threads his fingers through yours. You squeeze unconsciously when you feel how cold they still are.

“We got nothin’, John,” you croak out, shrugging a shoulder; you desperately want to dismiss the worry and heartsickness that plagues you, leaning over to bury your face in the crook of his neck. That part, at least, is warm. “We got no home, no family. Everything’s just… _wrong.”_

“Hey,” he grunts, lacing his free hand under the curve of your jaw. Gently, he encourages you out from the familiar spot you’ve suddenly claimed. _“You’re_ my family. You hear me? _You’re_ my home. That’s how it’s always been, ain’t it?”

He looks at you very seriously with those gray eyes of his, the ones you could easily get lost in. “We’re used to this. And we’re _good_ at it. Home was never anywhere for us except wherever the hell _Dutch_ wanted to be.”

You sniffle a little bit, brows furrowing. “I…well, yes-“

He sighs, making the decision to suddenly reach down underneath you and bundle you up into his lap. He extends his legs, lets your weight rest easy atop his thighs. “Now? Now home is wherever _we_ want it to be. And it ain’t—certainly ain’t the best circumstances, I know, but-“

Before he can finish your hands go up and thread into the loose hair that hangs around his face, coming to rest beneath his ears as you pull him in for a kiss. It’s all you can think to do after the impossible tenderness he’s gracing you with. And he sounds so _sure,_ even after everything that’s happened.

You know how much he aches inside, just as much as you do. Arthur was his brother; Dutch and Hosea like fathers, and here he is, putting his own heartsickness aside trying to make you feel better.

The fire crackles behind you and the sudden **pop** of a knot bursting sends little sparks cascading out over the hearth. John’s eyes glance away from you for only a second at the disturbance, and it certainly does not prevent him from reciprocating your affections.

You feel his hands tighten where they rest at the swell of your hips, holding you close. He parts from you just enough that he can bump his forehead against yours. “I don’t think anyone’s been chasin’ us for a bit. And this place seems like a pretty good one. I think we could make a home here, at least for the winter, maybe…”

A small smile ticks up your mouth. The cabin is cozy, and remote. Perhaps not a bad place to hole away for the worst of the winter months. It certainly lightens your heart more than the thought of trying to keep moving through the snow and the cold to some unknown destination even further north. You give him a small nod, pressing forward to give him another quick kiss. “Guess it ain’t the worst place to spend Christmas, anyway,” you mutter with a bit more good humor.

He blinks, pulling back a bit. _“It’s Christmas?”_

Your eyes shift back to meet his and you nod again. “According to the calendar in my journal, it’s December 24th…”

He has not been keeping track of the days. It has not been important. Only the distance is important, and how much of it he can put between the two of you and all the lawmen and bounty hunters he knows are still searching.

He looks down, a little embarrassed. “I—shit, I guess I didn’t even realize.”

It’s your turn to angle your head as you drape your arms over his broad shoulders. Despite his crudeness, despite the hard life he’s lived - hell, that you’ve _both_ lived - it’s moments like this that make it all worth it. The moments he reserves only for you, finally letting the ironclad exterior drop away. He’s softened in the gentle light from the fire, and he’s _yours._

He glances up, wrapping his arms all the way around your back, bringing you in and enveloping you. “Merry Christmas, baby. For what it’s worth.”

“It’s a good one as long as I still got you, John Marston.”

Dinner will be eaten eventually, and food and water taken to your horses that brave the snow together outside; but for now, the two of you allow yourselves to take some quiet comfort from each other. It doesn’t seem that bad at all, you suddenly think, if you can spend the rest of the winter like this.


End file.
